The hall of Riverrun was quieter than usual, the murmur of voices hushed out of respect for the somber state of the castle. Robb Stark strode through the stone corridors with purpose, his shoulders bearing the weight of leadership and grief. He had come to discuss strategy with his council and pay respects to his ailing grandfather, Lord Hoster Tully. His mind was firmly on duty as he followed Brynden and Edmure into the solar, but the moment he stepped inside, he froze.
Standing by the window, bathed in the soft light of late afternoon, was a young woman he had never seen before. She turned toward him as they entered, her auburn hair cascading over her shoulders, and her simple forest-green dress hugging her frame in a way that made her seem effortlessly elegant. The color brought out the vivid green of her eyes, and Robb felt his breath catch in his throat.
Brynden's voice broke through his daze. "Lady Elizabeth," he said warmly, gesturing toward Robb. "May I present my great-nephew, his Grace, Robb Stark, King in the North."
Elizabeth inclined her head politely, her movements graceful yet unassuming. "Your Grace," she said softly, her voice steady but careful.
Robb blinked, then quickly recovered, stepping forward. "Lady Elizabeth," he said, his tone quieter than usual as he reached for her hand. Her fingers were cool against his, and when he lifted her hand to press a kiss to it, his lips brushed lightly against her skin. As he straightened, he found himself staring into her eyes, unable to look away.
Her cheeks flushed a soft pink, and her lashes fluttered as she averted her gaze, but not before offering a polite smile. "It's an honor to meet you, Your Grace," she said, her voice tinged with shyness.
Robb gulped, his mouth suddenly dry as he momentarily losing himself in her presence. Never had he seen such a beautiful woman before.
The sound of someone clearing their throat snapped him out of his reverie. Brynden stood nearby, his arms crossed and an amused smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Perhaps we should sit, Your Grace," he said pointedly, his eyes twinkling.
Robb released Elizabeth's hand reluctantly and took a small step back, his cheeks warming. "Yes, of course," he murmured, feeling uncharacteristically flustered.
Edmure, meanwhile, stood to the side, his expression a mix of confusion and disbelief. He had only seen the sharp, often sarcastic side of Elizabeth over the past two weeks, a young woman unafraid to call him out on his airs. But now, she appeared calm and reserved, almost demure, and her interaction with Robb was far different from anything he'd witnessed before.
As they moved to take their seats, Elizabeth cast a quick glance at Robb, noting his lingering gaze. She swallowed, her heart fluttering unexpectedly. She had heard much of the Young Wolf from the Tullys and the whispers of staff around the castle, but the intensity of his presence caught her off guard. For the first time in weeks, her carefully maintained walls wavered, and she found herself hoping that perhaps he was as kind as his reputation suggested.
Blackfish's voice drew them all back to the present, the faint humor in his tone evident as he gestured toward a map spread across the table. "Now that introductions are out of the way, let us get to the matter at hand."
As Robb nodded and sat down, his mind reluctantly shifted back to strategy, though he couldn't help but glance at Elizabeth once more, his thoughts straying to the warmth of her hand in his.
Brynden gestured to a guard nearby who in turn stepped forward. He then turned to Elizabeth with a small nod. "Go on now, lass. You've done more than enough loitering in the company of us battle-worn fools."
Elizabeth inclined her head in acknowledgment, her expression neutral as she followed the guard out of the room. If she seemed displeased with the order, Robb couldn't tell. A mask had slipped in place. Robb's eyes trailed her movements, lingering on the sway of her forest-green dress and the soft shimmer of her auburn hair in the dim light. He caught himself leaning forward slightly as she disappeared through the door, his gaze fixed on the empty archway long after she had gone.
The corners of Brynden's mouth twitched upward in quiet amusement, but he said nothing immediately, choosing instead to observe his nephew with a knowing look.
Edmure, less subtle in his observations, leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "You seem... rather distracted, Your Grace," he said pointedly, his tone laced with curiosity.
Robb cleared his throat, his face warming as he turned his attention back to the room. "Not at all," he replied briskly, gesturing toward the table. "Let's begin. We've wasted enough time."
Brynden chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Lad, there's no shame in appreciating beauty when it crosses your path. Just don't let it cross your focus when it matters most."
Robb shot his great-uncle a look, half-grateful, half-embarrassed, but said nothing. Instead, he stepped toward the maps laid out before them, forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand.
The men began their discussions, voices rising and falling as they debated strategies and movements. Robb forced his thoughts to stay with them, though he occasionally found his mind wandering back to the way Elizabeth had looked, the light of the fire catching her auburn hair, the delicate flush on her cheeks. He shook himself free of the thought each time, grounding himself in the immediacy of war and duty.
Minutes stretched into an hour before the door opened again, and Lady Catelyn entered. Her pale face and red-rimmed eyes told of her vigil by her father's bedside, and the room fell silent as all attention turned to her. Brynden immediately rose, crossing to her side and placing a comforting hand on her arm.
"How is he?" Brynden asked softly.
Catelyn's voice was a whisper, laden with sorrow. "It won't be long now."
Brynden nodded, his expression somber as he led her to a chair near the table. Robb approached her, his heart heavy at the sight of her pain.
"Mother," he said quietly, his hand hovering at her shoulder as if to offer comfort but unsure how to do so.
Catelyn looked up at him, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I'm fine, Robb," she assured him, though her voice betrayed her grief. "Let's focus on what needs to be done."
Brynden squeezed her hand and took his seat beside her, his expression grim. "She's right. There's no time to lose. Walder Frey won't make this easy for us, and every day we delay only strengthens the Lannisters' position."
Robb nodded, his jaw tightening. "Then we proceed carefully but firmly. Frey will have his terms, but I won't be cornered into something that risks our cause."
The discussion resumed, with maps unfurled and strategies proposed. The weight of leadership bore down on Robb, but for now, his focus remained firmly on the war. Whatever thoughts of Elizabeth lingered in his mind, they would have to wait.
The Dining Hall
The loud sound of conversation and the scrape of plates filled the hall as the evening feast was underway. Robb sat at the head table, his expression composed but his mind elsewhere. His earlier encounter with Lady Elizabeth lingered at the edges of his thoughts, despite his repeated efforts to banish them.
"Robb," his mother's soft voice drew his attention.
Catelyn sat beside him, her grief still visible in the shadows beneath her eyes, though she managed to hold her head high. Her composure, even amidst her father's impending death and the constant burdens of war, was something he admired deeply.
"Have you seen Lord Brynden?" she asked, glancing over the crowded hall.
Robb shook his head. "Not since earlier. He's likely with the guards or checking on the bridge."
Catelyn gave a faint nod, her lips pressing into a thin line. The mention of the Freys had been a sore point since his march began. They were an unavoidable necessity, and every decision tied to them felt like a heavy chain around his neck.
As a servant passed, refilling his goblet, Robb let his gaze sweep over the room. Lords and bannermen talked in quiet clusters, laughter occasionally breaking through the somber mood. Yet one face was notably absent.
Lady Elizabeth.
He hadn't seen her since the council meeting, and though he tried to brush it off, the realization stirred unease. His fingers tightened around the goblet, but he remained silent. He could not afford to give any sign that his thoughts lingered on her absence.
"Robb?"
His mother's voice again. This time, it held a note of concern.
He turned to her with a faint smile. "I'm sorry, Mother. What were you saying?"
Catelyn regarded him closely, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly. "You seem... distracted."
Robb shook his head. "Merely thinking of the war, and how far we've come. It's been months since I left Winterfell. There are days when it feels like a lifetime."
Catelyn softened at his words. "You carry a great burden, Robb. More than anyone should at your age. But you've grown into a fine leader. Your father would be proud."
Her words, though heartfelt, only deepened the ache in his chest. He looked down at the plate before him, picking idly at the food.
"I hope I've made him proud," he said quietly. "But I fear I've let too many down."
Catelyn reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. "You have not let us down, my son. Your father's honor lives on in you, and your men follow you because they believe in your cause."
Robb nodded, though her reassurances couldn't dispel the weight of his decisions.
After the feast, he escorted his mother to her chambers. The long day had taken its toll on her, and she looked pale as she retired. Before leaving, Robb leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"I'll see you in the morning, Mother," he said softly.
She smiled weakly. "Goodnight, Robb. Get some rest."
But rest would not come easily.
As he made his way through the quiet halls of Riverrun, his steps eventually led him to the room where his grandfather rested. Hoster Tully lay in his bed, his breaths shallow and labored. Brynden sat beside him, his usual stern demeanor softened in the presence of his dying brother.
Robb entered quietly, placing a hand on Brynden's shoulder. The Blackfish glanced up and gave a small nod before standing to leave, granting Robb a moment alone with his grandfather.
Sitting by the bedside, Robb looked down at the man who had once been a towering figure of strength. Now, he was frail, his life slipping away with every passing moment.
"I'm sorry, Grandfather," Robb whispered. "I wish I could have come sooner."
Hoster stirred faintly, his lips moving, though no words came. Robb took his hand, holding it gently.
"I promise," Robb said, his voice steady despite the emotion in his throat, "I will make the Lannisters pay for what they've done. I'll restore honor to our house. To your name."
As the night deepened, Robb eventually returned to his own chambers, though sleep still eluded him. His thoughts drifted back to Lady Elizabeth, to her fierce spirit and the way she carried herself with such unapologetic confidence.
It had been too long since he'd enjoyed the company of a lady, and the realization struck him harder than he expected. The war had consumed every part of him, leaving no room for moments of levity or companionship.
He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Her absence at the feast shouldn't have mattered, yet it did.
With a sigh, Robb closed his eyes, willing himself to push the thoughts away. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, and he needed to be ready. For now, all he could do was hold onto the memories of Winterfell, of simpler days, and hope they would sustain him.
The Next Morning
Elizabeth tugged the thick braid over her shoulder, her fingers idly brushing along the strands as she walked the outer grounds of Riverrun. A cool breeze danced across the castle walls, tugging at her skirts and teasing the strands of auburn hair that had slipped loose from their weave.
The guard at her side kept his distance, though his presence was a constant reminder that she was not free to wander as she pleased. She kept her steps slow, purposeful, her eyes scanning the area while her mind churned. Westeros was a place of dangers disguised in courtesy and tradition—a world so foreign, yet achingly familiar to what she'd read about medieval Europe back in her own dimension.
"Careful now," she muttered under her breath as her skirts caught on a stray branch. The guard didn't react, but she caught his wary glance and forced a small smile to reassure him.
A figure appeared at the edge of the courtyard, striding casually toward her. Elizabeth stilled as her eyes caught the familiar sight of auburn hair that matched the morning sun.
Robb Stark.
She recognized him instantly, his broad shoulders wrapped in a thick cloak, his expression betraying a faint weariness. Yet as he approached, his face softened, and a smile began to play at his lips.
Elizabeth straightened, her hands clasping loosely before her. His calm demeanor was disarming, though the way his gaze lingered on her braid—on her—made her heart skip a beat.
"Good morning, my lady," Robb greeted, his tone warm but steady.
"Your Grace" Elizabeth replied, offering a small curtsy, though there was a faint glint of amusement in her eyes. "It's a fine morning, though I didn't expect to see you out so early."
Robb hesitated, his practiced ease faltering for a moment as he searched for the right words. "I find the mornings... helpful for clearing the mind," he said, though the sincerity in his voice made it clear he was no politician rehearsing pleasantries.
Elizabeth tilted her head, her braid slipping further over her shoulder. "Is that so?" she asked, her tone teasing. "The weight of command getting too heavy, or is could it be a certain lord within the castle being a twat again?"
Robb blinked in surprise, a loud chuckle escaping his lips. "A bit of both," he admitted, the sound of his laughter ringing warm in the crisp air.
Encouraged by his reaction, Elizabeth allowed a genuine smile to light her face. For the first time in weeks, she let herself relax. The edges of her guarded demeanor softened, and her true personality—one she'd kept hidden for survival—peeked through.
"Lord Edmure's got a gift for it," she said with a shrug, her voice laced with humor. "The way he pouts after I talk back to him—honestly, it's like dealing with a child who's just been told they can't have a second dessert."
Robb laughed again, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement. "I believe my uncle Brynden would agree with you wholeheartedly. Edmure is... an acquired taste."
Elizabeth leaned closer, dropping her voice conspiratorially. "Your great uncle Brynden already warned me to pick my battles wisely. Though I'm beginning to think he enjoys the spectacle of it all."
"Uncle Brynden does have a sense of humor, though he keeps it well-hidden."
The ease in their conversation felt natural, as though they had known each other far longer than a few fleeting moments. Robb's heart hammered against his chest, and he struggled to focus on her words rather than the way her laughter warmed the cold edges of the morning.
"You speak boldly," he observed, his tone carrying admiration.
He wanted to remark as well about her accent, the way she annunciated words in such a different way than he was used to. He had heard Riverland accents from his mother's family. Northern accents. Southern accents when the king arrived. He had once even heard an accent from the heart of Dorne when a bard traveled north and visited Winterfell many moons ago. Yet, this accent of hers was different. He wanted to ask about it, but decided another time would be best.
"I've been told," Elizabeth replied, a hint of her usual defiance slipping into her voice. "Though I'm trying to keep that in check these days. Your customs, your traditions—they're... different from where I'm from."
Robb nodded, his gaze softening. "I imagine they are. Yet I've never seen someone adapt as quickly as you have."
The sincerity in his voice caught Elizabeth off guard. Her smile faltered, replaced by a fleeting look of vulnerability. "Survival requires adaptation," she said quietly. "And I've no intention of failing at that."
Robb's chest tightened at her words, and he found himself stepping closer, his voice lowering. "I suppose that is what we all are doing in these trying times."
Elizabeth blinked, momentarily at a loss for words under his smoldering gaze. The intensity in his blue eyes sent a warmth rushing to her cheeks. She quickly turned her gaze away, her fingers brushing over her braid again.
The guard cleared his throat nearby, drawing their attention. Robb straightened, his demeanor shifting back to one of measured poise.
"Well," Elizabeth said, breaking the silence with a lighter tone. "I suppose I should continue my walk before they start wondering if I've bewitched you, Your Grace"
Robb couldn't hide the grin tugging at his lips. "Bewitched, indeed," he murmured under his breath, though she didn't seem to hear him.
As Elizabeth began to walk away, her guard trailing behind her, Robb's eyes lingered on her retreating figure. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself the indulgence of simply watching her. The sun caught the auburn tones of her hair, and the faint sway of her skirts made his heart ache in a way he wasn't sure he could explain.
"Your Grace?" a voice called, pulling him from his reverie.
Robb turned sharply, his expression quickly masking the warmth he'd just felt. One of his bannermen stood nearby, a scroll held tightly in his hand with a look of impatience.
With a heavy sigh, Robb nodded. "I'm coming."
As he followed the man back toward the castle, Robb couldn't shake the thought of Elizabeth from his mind. For the first time in months, the weight of duty felt heavier than ever, for it now carried the bittersweet ache of what might never be.